Sharon burst into tears, began shaking violently, doubled over and held her head.
“She didn't do it by herself,” I said. “Who helped her?”
She shook some more.
“Was it D.J. Rasmussen?”
She looked up, tear-streaked, mouth open. “You knew D.J.?”
“I met him.”
“Met him? Where?”
“At your house. Both of us thought you were dead. We came there to pay our last respects.”
She tore at her face. “Oh, God, poor, poor D.J. Until she told me what she'd . . . what they'd done, I'd never known he was one of her . . . conquests.”
“He was the only one she held on to,” I said. “The most vulnerable. The most violent.”
She groaned and straightened, pulled herself to her feet and began circling the room, slowly, like a sleepwalker, then faster and faster, tugging her earlobe so hard I thought she'd tear it off.
“Yes, it was D.J. She laughed when she told me that, laughed about how she'd gotten him to do it—using dope, booze. Her body. Mostly her body. I'll never forget the way she put it: ‘I did him, so he'd do them.' Laughing, always laughing, about all the blood, how Paul and Suzanne had begged. And poor Lourdes, so sweet, leaving, on her way out, when they caught her coming down the stairs. Sunday was her day off—she'd stayed late to help tidy the house. Laughing, about how she'd tied them, watched as D.J. did them—with a baseball bat and a gun. Him thinking all the time that it was me he was doing it for—me who'd used him.”
She ran over and sank to her knees. “That's what amused her the most, Alex! That he'd never known the truth—all the time he thought he was doing it for me!”
She took hold of my shirt, pulled me to her, to her breasts. “She said that made me a murderer too. That when you really got down to it, we were one and the same!”
I helped her up, then lowered her back to the bed. She lay down, curled fetally, eyes wide open, arms wrapped around her trunk like a straitjacket.
I patted her, stroked her, said, “She wasn't you. You weren't her.”
She uncurled her arms and put them around me. Drew me down, bathed my face with kisses. “Thank you, Alex. Thank you for saying that.”
Slowly, gently, I drew myself away, still patting. Saying, “Go on. Get it out.” The therapist's prompt . . .
She said, “Then her laughter got crazy—weird, hysterical. All of a sudden she stopped laughing completely, looked at me, then down at herself, all the blood, and started to tear off her clothes. Coming down hard. Realizing what she'd done: By destroying Paul, she'd destroyed herself. He was everything to her, the closest she'd ever come to a father. She needed him, depended on him, and now he was gone and it was her fault. She fell apart, right before my eyes. Decompensating. Sobbing—not play-acting now, real tears—just wailing like a helpless baby. Begging me to bring him back, saying I was smart, I was a doctor, I could do it.
“I could have calmed her down. The way I'd done so many times before. Instead, I told her Paul was never coming back, that it was her fault, she'd have to pay, no one would be able to protect her from this one, not even Uncle Billy. She looked at me in a way I'd never seen before—scared to death. Like a condemned woman. Started in again, begging me to bring Paul back. I repeated that he was dead. Said the word over and over. Dead. Dead. Dead. She tried to come to me for comfort. I pushed her away, slapped her hard, once, twice. She backed away from me, stumbled, fell, reached into her purse and took out her daiquiri flask. Drank it, slobbering and crying, letting it dribble down her chin. Then out came her pills. She took handfuls of them, began gobbling them down. Stopping every few seconds to stare at me—daring me to stop her, the way I'd done so many times before. But I didn't. She lurched into my bedroom, still carrying her purse—stark naked, but with the purse, she looked so . . . pathetic.
“I followed her in. She took something else out of the purse. A gun. A little gold-plated pistol I'd never seen before. My new toy, she said. Like it? Got it on Rodeo fucking Drive. Broke it in today. Then she pointed it at me, tightened her finger on the trigger. I was sure I was going to die, but I didn't beg, just remained calm, looked her straight in the eye, and said, ‘Go ahead, spill some more innocent blood. Get filthier, you worthless piece of scum.' ”
“Then the strangest look came onto her face. She said, ‘I'm sorry, partner,' put the gun to her temple, and pulled the trigger.”
Silence.
“I just sat there looking at her for a while. Watching her bleed, her soul pass out of her. Wondering where it was headed. Then I called Uncle Billy. He took care of the rest.”
My chest hurt. I realized I'd been holding my breath and let it out.
She lay there, gradually loosening, getting dreamy-eyed. “And that's all there is, my darling. An ending. And a beginning. For us.”
She sat up, smoothed her hair, loosened the top button of her dress, and leaned forward. “I'm cleansed now. Free. Ready for you, Alex—ready to give you everything, to give myself in a way I've never given to anyone. I've waited so long for this moment, Alex. Never thought it would come.” She reached for me.
Now it was my turn to get up and pace.
“This is a lot to handle,” I said.
“I know it is, darling, but we've got time. All the time in the world. I'm finally free.”
“Free,” I said. “And rich. I never thought of myself as a kept man.”
“Oh, but you wouldn't be. I'm really not an heiress. Mr. Belding's will says the money stays in the corporation.”
“Still,” I said, “with Uncle Billy administering everything—the way he feels about you, life's bound to be pretty luxurious.”
“No, it doesn't have to be. I don't need that. Money was never important to me—not for its own sake, or for the things it could buy. That was her thing. When she found out who she was, she freaked out, started screaming at Uncle Billy, accused him of ripping her off and threatened to take him to court. Such greed—she already had more than she needed. She even tried to get me to go along with her, but I refused. That really made her vicious.”
“How far did she go with the threat?”
“Not far. Uncle Billy managed to calm her down.”
“How?”
“I have no idea. But let's not talk about her anymore. Or money, or anything negative. I'm here, with you. In this wonderful place, where no one can find us or soil us. You and me and Shirlee. We'll make a family, be together forever.”
She came toward me, lips parted for a kiss.
I held her at arm's length.
“It's not that simple, Sharon.”
Her eyes went big. “I . . . I don't understand.”
“There are problems. Things that don't make sense.”
“Alex.” Tears. “Please don't play games with me, not after what I've been through.”
She tried pushing against me. I held her fast.
“Oh, Alex, please don't do this to me. I want to touch you, want you to hold me!”
“Sherry killing Kruse,” I said. “It wasn't about the party—that may have been the final straw, but she'd been planning it, paying off D.J. Rasmussen for at least two weeks before then. Thousands of dollars. Priming him for the big job.”
She gasped, reversed her movements, trying to free herself from my grasp. Still I held fast.
“No,” she said. “No, I don't believe that! As bad as she was, that's not true!”
“It's true, all right. And you know it better than anyone.”
“What do you mean?” And all at once her face—that flawless face—was ugly.
Ugly with rage. Empathic failure . . .
“What I mean is that you set it up. Planted the seeds. Sent her a six-year-old dissertation and confirmed her worst anxieties.”
Her eyes went wild. “Go to hell.”
She twisted, tried to free herself.
“You know it's true, Sharon.”
“Of course it isn't true. She didn't read. She w
as a stupid, stupid girl, didn't like books! And you're stupid for even saying something like that!”
“This is one book she would have struggled through. Because you'd been priming her for it—using the same techniques Kruse used on you. Verbal manipulations, hypnotic suggestions. Things you suggested to her while she was under, then ordered her to forget—about Kruse and you, his liking you better. She was borderline from the beginning, but you pushed her over the border. The sad thing is, you'd gotten over there yourself, first.”
She snarled, turned her fingers into claws and tried to sink her nails into my hands. We wrestled, panting. I managed to get both of her wrists in one hand, used the other to hold her fast.
“Let go of me, you bastard! Ow, you're hurting me! Fuck you, let go!”
“How long did it take, Sharon? To break her, turn her on Paul?”
“I didn't! You're crazy! Why would I?”
“To clean things up. Get free. Get rid of someone you finally realized had been manipulating you instead of helping you. What made you break? Finding the two of them? Up in her room, doing what they'd probably been doing for years? Or maybe she'd told you about it when you hypnotized her. Incest. The worst kind. Daddy fucking her. He was your daddy too. And, by doing it, fucking you over.”
“No! No, no, no, no! You slime-bastard, you lying fucking bastard! No! Shut up! Get out, you fuck, you piece of shit!”
The filth poured out of her, the way I'd heard it pour out of her sister. The look on her face, that of the girl in the flame dress, loathing me. Murderous.
I said, “Two birds with one stone, Sharon. Turn Sherry on Kruse, then wait for her to come for you. You'd been planning it for months—at least half a year. That's when you told Elmo to get another job. You knew Resthaven was closing down, because Resthaven was something Uncle Billy had set up for Shirlee and you were taking Shirlee out of there. To your new home. You and me and Shirlee makes three. A new partnership.”
“No, no! That's fucking crazy—you're out of your mind! She had D.J.—dangerous, violent, you said so yourself. Two against one! I'd have been crazy to put myself in that kind of danger!”
She fought one hand loose, finally got a nail in and ripped downward. I felt pain, wetness, shoved her away from me, hard. She flew backward, the backs of her legs hit the bed, and she sprawled. Panting. Sobbing. Mouthing silent obscenities.
I said, “D.J. was no threat to you. Because all along, he thought it was you he'd been making-it with, you who'd paid him to kill Kruse. Sherry couldn't risk blowing that, telling him he'd been deceived and having him turn on her. She had to take care of you by herself. Thought she'd be able to surprise you. But you had the advantage. She stepped right into your trap and you were ready. With your gold-plated twenty-two.”
She kicked her feet in the air, waved her arms. Tantrum. Early trauma. Bad genes . . .
“Fucking . . . bastard . . . fuckdick slimebastard . . .”
“First you shot her,” I said. “Then you poured dope and booze down her throat. A good forensic analysis would be able to show she'd swallowed all of it after she died, but there'll never be a forensic analysis, because Uncle Billy took care of it. Along with everything else.”
“Lies, all lies, you fuck!”
“I don't think so, Sharon. And now you've got everything. Enjoy it.”
I backed away from her.
“You can't prove a fucking thing,” she said.
“I know,” I said. And made it to the door.
A gurgling, roaring sound—the only thing I could think of was a cesspool overflowing—came from deep inside her. She picked up the water glass she'd gotten for me, drew her arm back, and threw it at me.
If it had hit, it would have done damage. I ducked. It bounced off the plastic wall, landed on the carpet with an ineffectual thud.
“Your right hand,” I said. “At least I'm finally sure which side of the mirror I've been looking at.”
She whipped her eyes down to her hand, stared at it as if it had betrayed her.
I left. Had to walk for a long time in the darkness before I stopped hearing her screams.
Chapter
36
I heard the buggy before I saw it, a night-moth hum, coming from somewhere to my left. Then headlights swept the desert like some prison searchlight, washing over me, halting its arc, preserving me like a specimen in amber.
Within moments it was at my side.
“Step in, Doctor.” Vidal's rasp. Only he, in the driver's seat.
As I took my seat he ran his penlight over the blood on my hand. The desert air had dried it to maroon grit.
“Superficial,” I said.
“We'll take care of that when we get back.”
Unconcerned.
“You heard everything,” I said.
“Constant monitoring is necessary,” he said. “She needs care, watching. You saw that for yourself.”
“You're a big fan of show-and-tell,” I said. “Taking Sharon to see Joan, hoping that would dissuade her. Putting Sharon on display for me, in hopes of shutting my mouth.”
He began driving.
“What makes you think,” I said, “that you'll be any more successful?”
“One can only try,” he said.
We crossed the desert. More stars had come out, flooding the earth with icy light. Glazing it.
I said, “When did Belding die?”
“Years ago.”
“How many years ago?”
“Before the girls were reunited. Is the exact date important?”
“It was to Seaman Cross.”
“This isn't about Cross, is it?”
“What was the diagnosis?” I asked.
“Alzheimer's disease. Before the doctors gave us that, we just called it senility. A gradual, nasty fade.”
“Must have been a strain on the corporation.”
“Yes,” he said, “but on the other hand, we had time to prepare. There were early signs—forgetfulness, wandering attention—but he'd always been an eccentric. His quirks concealed it for a while. Contacting Cross was the first thing that made me take notice—it was totally out of character. Leland had always been obsessed with his privacy, detested journalists of any sort. A change in habits indicated something seriously wrong.”
“Like the playboy phase that preceded his breakdown.”
“More serious. This was permanent. Organic. I realize now he must have felt his mind slipping away and wanted to be immortalized.”
I said, “The things that Cross described—the long hair and nails, the altar, defecating openly. They were true, then. Symptoms.”
“The book was a fraud,” he said. “Fictional trash.”
We drove on.
I said, “Convenient of Belding to die when he did. It spared him—and you—confronting Sharon and Sherry.”
“Ever so rarely Nature acts in benevolent ways.”
“If She hadn't, I'm sure you would have figured something out. Now he can remain a benevolent figure for her. She'll never know he wanted to kill her.”
“Do you think that knowledge would be good for her—therapeutic?”
I didn't answer.
“My role in life,” he said, “is to solve problems, not create them. In that sense, I'm a healer. Just like yourself.”
The analogy offended me less than I'd have imagined. I said, “Taking care of others really has been your thing, hasn't it? Belding—everything from his sex life to his public image, and when that got hard to handle, when he started going for the night life, you were there to assume executive responsibility. Your sister, Sherry, Sharon, Willow Glen, the corporation—doesn't it weigh on you once in a while?”
I thought I saw him smile in the darkness, was certain he touched his throat and grimaced, as if it were too hard to talk.
Several miles later he said, “Have you reached a decision, Doctor?”
“About what?”
“About probing further.”
“My que
stions have been answered, if that's what you mean.”
“What I mean is, will you continue to stir things up and ruin what's left of a very ill young woman's life?”
“Not much of a life,” I said.
“Better than any alternative. She'll be well taken care of,” he said. “Protected. And the world will be protected from her.”
“What about after you're gone?”
“There are men,” he said. “Competent men. A line of command. Everything's been worked out.”
“Line of command,” I said. “Belding was a cowboy, never had one. But once he was dead, it was a different story. With no one to churn out patents, you had to hire creativity, reorganize the corporate structure. That made Magna more vulnerable to outside attack—you had to solidify your power base. Having all three of Belding's daughters under your thumb was one big step in that direction. How'd you get Sherry to back off from her legal threats?”
“Quite simple,” he said. “I took her on a tour of corporate headquarters—our research and development center, the highest of high-technology enterprises. Told her I'd be happy to step down and have her run everything—she could be the new chairperson of Magna, bear the responsibility for fifty-two thousand employees, thousands of projects. The very thought terrified her—she wasn't an intellectual girl, couldn't balance a checkbook. She ran out of the building. I caught up with her and suggested an alternative.”
“Money.”
“More than she'd be able to spend in several lifetimes.”
“Now she's gone,” I said. “No more need to make payments.”
“Doctor, you have an extremely naïve view of life. Money is the means, not the end. And the corporation would have survived—will survive, with or without me, or anyone else. When things attain a certain size, they become permanent. One can dredge a lake, not an ocean.”
“What is the end?”
“Rhythm. Balance. Keeping everything going—a certain ecology, if you will.”
A few minutes later: “You still haven't answered my question, Doctor.”
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